


Under the Moonlight

by bereniceofdale



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, But it could be worse, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-22 23:50:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6097971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bereniceofdale/pseuds/bereniceofdale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elrond was no fool; such tears were not of a pain any medicine could heal. There was something else to them, too: they weren't just tears one spends in grief of kin or family. Elrond couldn't quite explain it, and so he asked, “Who is it, that you cry for?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the Moonlight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Piyo13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/gifts).



> This was written as a gift for [Iza](http://piyo-13.tumblr.com), who's an amazing person, friend, artist, writer, and beta, whom I love very much <3 Go check out her works and give her all the love!

It was dark, and the moon cast the shadows of high trees on the floor as the wind howled and the rain poured outside. The crash of the waves against rocks could be heard even from where he lay. The air was cold, and his muscles were still sore from the sword training Maedhros had put him and his brother through for most of the day, which had seemed to never end.

Elrond blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, and wiped the sweat off his forehead. In his chest his heart beat fast; a nightmare had shaken him, and he shook his head at the simple thought of it. Now that he was out of such a frightening world, he wouldn’t let his thoughts wander back where other shadows would find him.

Beside him on the bed slept his brother Elros, mumbling incoherent words taken from his dreams. Everything else was quiet in the house, and Elrond concentrated on the beating of his own heart, until it found a steadier pace.

For a long while Elrond lay there, trying to go back to sleep, but it wouldn't find him. He rolled on his bed, and thought of days past and days to come, and he was remembering old lessons when he heard it; his keen ears perceived something being thrown against a wall, and then, muffled, the sounds of someone’s weeping.

Elrond frowned; there wasn't anyone in this house but him and Elros, and with Maglor gone to hunt, only his brother Maedhros, remained.

Perhaps it would have been best to stay in the room, but still he was just a child, and his curiosity got the best of him. He rose.

Quietly he followed the sound, walking along the white walls of the hallway, moving through the shadows.

He stopped before a large door made out of fine wood, and his breath caught in his throat; the sound had quieted, but it was still there, muffled and steady.

Maedhros' room.

Elrond hesitated this time, and he didn't know what pushed him forward after a long moment of standing there in silence; but he put his hand on the handle, and opened the door.

On the floor was a broken pot, its pieces scattered on the floor, water flowing down the wall.

And there by the window stood Maedhros the Tall, but tall he wasn't; his shoulders were slumped, his hair a red mess, and he seemed small and hurt. Though not fragile or breakable, Elrond felt that in this moment, Maedhros could shatter, but not in a way one might deem weak.

His fire was there, ready to burn.

But Maedhros stood, unmoving, under the moonlight, his stump held against his chest, his face looking up to the moon, tears slowly streaming down his cheeks through the path of his scars. By now his crying was quiet. 

Elrond wasn't noticed—or if he had been, nothing was said—until he got closer. His heart pounded hard against his chest when he stopped before the Elf and saw his eyes widen in surprise as he looked down and saw him, only to turn into something blank, and unreadable.

“Be gone,” Maedhros said, but his command was nothing more than a whisper.

Elrond didn't. Instead, after a quick few seconds of hard thinking, he walked to the bed, careful not to walk on broken pieces of ceramic, reached for the candle on the bedside table, and lit it up under the weight of Maedhros’ gaze. Then, he went back, and watched the Elf before him carefully.

Perhaps it wasn't wise, to stay when he had been asked to leave, but Elrond was struck; never before over the few years he and Elros had spent under Maedhros and Maglor's care had he seen Maedhros in such a different light.

Maedhros was in pain, this Elrond could tell. It wasn't just a pain of the flesh, but a pain of the mind, as well. There was no blood, but there were wounds, deep and hollow and somehow Elrond knew that were he to try to close them, they would only reopen and hurt all the same.

Just like his brother, Maedhros had been kind to them, but unlike Maglor, he wasn't one to show much affection, nor emotions such as this. He had always been the more distant. In the first years, Elrond had often wondered if he cared at all, until he had understood that his way of caring wasn't one most would expect. Though Elros hadn’t, Elrond had come to accept it.

For Maedhros was followed by ghosts and shadows wherever he went. They walked in his steps, showed in his eyes along with the fire that burned there. Elrond couldn't imagine what a smile would look like on his face. Always, he was calm and serious, but his eyes were ablaze and his words, heavy.

Weakness, Maedhros had never let be seen, not until this night. But, was it truly weakness, when it seemed to make the fire of his eyes an inferno, fuelled by pain and regrets?

The sight was as sad as it was scary. Elrond thought of all the other names Maedhros was called, of the broken pot, of how they had ended up here under the damned brothers' care. He imagined Maedhros' anger directed at him, but he shoved it all aside; never had Maedhros raised a hand against him, or his brother, and he doubted he ever would, for he had come to learn violence wasn’t his watchword.

Though yes, he should go, Elrond found he couldn't quite do nothing and leave.

Maybe Elros was right; maybe he had too much compassion to give.

And so he held up his hand, without saying a single word. Maedhros merely stared as he held his stump tighter, as if to protect it from more harm. Elrond found it hard, to hold his gaze, but still he did until a small sigh escaped Maedhros' mouth, and he put his ruined wrist over Elrond's smaller hand.

Elrond closed the other over it, before he inspected the damaged skin between his fingers; the scars made it rough, but it was surprisingly soft in its own way. He knew this to be special, and his heart was filled with respect and understanding; Maedhros would not let just anyone touch it.

“Go back to bed, Elrond,” Maedhros told him once more.

“Does it pain you?” Elrond asked instead, and his voice was as firm as it was gentle.

There was a long silence, until Maedhros spoke again. “Yes,” he said at last.

“A lot?”

“Yes.”

“Does it happen often?”

“Not anymore.”

“Will you let me help?”

Maedhros didn't answer, and Elrond knew better than to insist. All he knew how to do was to massage it, and he wouldn't give his help it if it wasn't welcomed, and so he let go of the stump.

Silence stretched from there. Maedhros had stopped crying; he wiped the tears off his cheeks, but in his eyes, the pain lingered.

Elrond was no fool; such tears were not of a pain any medicine could heal. There was something else to them, too: they weren't just tears one spends in grief of kin or family. Elrond couldn't quite explain it, and so he asked, “Who is it, that you cry for?”

“There are many to cry for,” Maedhros replied.

“Yes,” said Elrond, “but there is one you regret most. There is someone who makes you cry, now.”

There was silence for another long moment, and Maedhros glanced at the moon. Elrond thought he would get no answer. Maybe he had overstepped, and he would make sure not to make that mistake again; he made to leave by first bowing his head in apology, but Maedhros’ voice rose, stopping him. 

“My cousin, Fingon the Valiant,” he said, and then more quietly, “Findekáno.”

The name was strange to Elrond’s ears; he was not supposed to hear this language, and yet Maedhros trusted him enough—or didn’t care enough—to speak it before him. Elrond had heard of his distant uncle, and this he told Maedhros, and then asked, “‘Findekáno’—is this what you called him? What did he call you?”

It was a question he shouldn’t have asked, and a name spoken in a tongue forbidden to him, but Elrond found he didn’t care. Maedhros had to see this in his eyes, for confusion painted his face for a quick second.

“He called me by my amilessë, ‘Maitimo’ for I liked it most.”

Elrond nodded, making mental note of this name he knew to have heard before, though it was nothing more than the ghost of a memory. He found he liked it more; as he repeated it quietly it sounded kinder and softer on his tongue, like a remembrance of a gentler time. 

“Tell me the stories,” he inquired then, and tried a half-smile. 

“You know the stories,” Maedhros protested.

“Yes, some,” Elrond said, “but I’ve never heard them from you.”

Maedhros only blinked, searching Elrond's eyes. Seeing the young Elf wouldn't move, he seemed to come to a decision and with a nod of his head gestured to the bed.

Elrond looked away to go and sit, only to lock his gaze back to Maedhros’ eyes when the Elf sat beside him.

And so, Maedhros told him about the High King Fingon, his cousin, his friend. Many of the stories Elrond had indeed heard before, but there was something different to the way Maedhros described them.

Something different to the way Maedhros described _him_ , reminding Elrond of how his father talked of his mother, or the feeling he got when he caught him looking at her when she couldn’t see.

And Elrond listened, taken by Maedhros' words. He spoke of war and pain and loss, but also of kinder days and sweeter times shared even despite the bitterness between their houses. An unlikely, strong friendship born on Valinor, that had been cherished for as long as time had permitted it, and then lost in tears and blood.

When he was done, both stayed silent, but again Maedhros had wept, and Elrond felt sad, for such a fate should not await a kind soul in a world in pain.

“He had a good heart, hadn't he?” Elrond said quietly.

Maedhros slowly nodded, rubbing circles upon the skin of his stump.

He looked away. “Perhaps too good,” Maedhros said.

Elrond understood, then, that Maedhros was like the Sun, and Fingon the Moon. Maedhros' light was wild and untamable, while Fingon's had been strong as well, but softer; a comforting guide through the shadows of the night.

“You can not be _too_ good!” Elrond exclaimed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Not in this world.”

Silence fell once more. Beside him Maedhros was looking up to the moon again, but his eyes were far away from the cold room; Elrond wasn’t sure he wanted to know what to read in them. 

“You will see him again,” Elrond said when he realized he would get no answer from Maedhros, and as he spoke these words he believed them; or at least he hoped that if he believed enough, it would be true.

Maedhros gave no word of reply, but after all he had been told this night, instantly Elrond knew; Maedhros didn't believe he would, and even if he did, doubted he would be welcomed with open arms. He had yet to forgive himself, but Elrond didn’t feel it was advice for him to give.

“He loved you and you loved him, didn't you?” Elrond asked, and he knew his words to be bold, but also to be the truth, clear as crystal through Maedhros' stories; he could tell from the words he used and the way he talked of him, the way the light in his eyes changed. He didn't care much about what kind of love there had been between them; he was still young, and this was a part of the world he had yet to fully understand, but even if young he was, he was no fool.

Beside him Maedhros stiffened and looked down. “Yes,” he murmured nonetheless.

“Then, he'll forgive you,” Elrond said at once.

“Love cannot undo all harm done.”

“Maybe not, but—” Elrond paused to stand so he would face him. “If we could forgive you,” Elrond whispered, “then he will, too.”

In the second Maedhros looked up, surprise showing in the depths of his eyes, which turned into confusion, and then the wavering glow of realization.

It seemed that he had made Maedhros speechless, and upon realizing this Elrond tried a small smile, but dared nothing more; he had done and said enough already.

Maedhros shook his head and, for the first time, Elrond thought he saw a smile on his face in return. It was weak and it was faint, but it was there nonetheless; another new, shy light in the night.

“Elrond,” he said at last, “you are but a child, but wise you are, too.”

His words hadn't been enough, Elrond could see it in the vastness of the sadness and the regret still lingering in Maedhros' eyes, but for tonight it would do, and Elrond was glad that he had been able to help. He had come to love the brothers who taught, fed, and housed him, and no matter how many would curse them with ill and pain, Elrond wouldn’t wish any of it upon them.

“Do not let this world, or anyone, change you too much.”

No thanks were spoken along with those few words, but they didn’t have to be; they were in the air all around, in the softer light that had taken Maedhros’ eyes, and that was enough. Elrond bowed his head in answer, and he stood there a while longer, his gaze drawn to Maedhros’ fire until he had to look away. His eyes fell on the stump once again.

“Does it still hurt?” Elrond asked.

“Yes,” Maedhros said.

“Will you let me help, now?” 

Maedhros seemed to study him, but Elrond held his ground, and his breath with it; finally, after he had wiped the last of his tears and closed his eyes, Maedhros held his wrist for Elrond to take.

 

Later, after he had left the room with a last, small smile, and once he was back under the sheets of his bed, Elrond thought that maybe this night, he would dream of good people, in a kinder world where the Sun and the Moon would find each other once more, and no pain nor blood would follow in their wake.

**Author's Note:**

> I forgot canon about the Sun and the Moon when I wrote this, and liked the comparison too much to correct it... but maybe, since it's just a comparison made by a young Elf, the mistake is not as bad as it could be? Anyway, I hope it didn't bother you too much! (also the title is terrible I'm sorry)
> 
> This little thing is also my very first work for The Silmarillion fandom! (yes hi I'm new) I loved writing it even though I kept freaking out about getting something wrong and asked Iza a thousand questions. I have a proper Russingon fic in the works, but I have a few other projects for another pairing to work on first, so it might take a long time before I can start writing it. :)
> 
> If you liked this, Kudos are much appreciated, and comments mean the world to me! :D Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> [Here](http://barduil.tumblr.com/post/145554014558/under-the-moonlight-elrond-maedhros-past)'s the fic's aesthetic if you want to see/share it :3
> 
> (Find me on Tumblr [here](http://barduil.tumblr.com) :3)


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